


A Courtship

by anomieow



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Fix-It, Hand Jobs, M/M, Tenderness, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29439318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow
Summary: Thomas Hartnell, fair-haired and flush-cheeked, is no match for the oily heat of the tropics. Not that he’d complain, for it’s far better than the murderous chill of the Arctic, but he still finds himself feeling faint under the pulse of the sun and during the hottest stretch of the afternoon seeks shelter. Now he steps into the supply hut, book on his hip, and waits for his eyes to adjust to the dim. Then he realizes he’s not alone.“I’m sorry,” he says, backing toward the door. It’s Henry Collins lying there, a vision of lazy hedonism, sprawled in a hammock slung between two beams in the coolest corner of the room, one muscular leg cocked up, bare broad chest gleaming with sweat. One arm over his brow. He must be sleeping. But then as he lays his hand on the door to leave, the muscular figure stirs, grins.“Hut’s big enough for the both of us,” he says. “Hammock is too, I bet.”<
Relationships: Henry Foster Collins/Thomas Hartnell
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	A Courtship

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in an AU where they all make it to the Sandwich Islands and everything is lovely and wonderful.

Thomas Hartnell, fair-haired and flush-cheeked, is no match for the oily heat of the tropics. Not that he’d complain, for it’s far better than the murderous chill of the Arctic, but he still finds himself feeling faint under the pulse of the sun and during the hottest stretch of the afternoon seeks shelter. Now he steps into the supply hut, book on his hip, and waits for his eyes to adjust to the dim. Then he realizes he’s not alone. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, backing toward the door. It’s Henry Collins lying there, a vision of lazy hedonism, sprawled in a hammock slung between two beams in the coolest corner of the room, one muscular leg cocked up, bare broad chest gleaming with sweat. One arm over his brow. He must be sleeping. But then as he lays his hand on the door to leave, the muscular figure stirs, grins.

“Hut’s big enough for the both of us,” he says. “Hammock is too, I bet.”

Tom Hartnell glances around, then back at him.

“Aye, you, Mr. Hartnell,” Collins grins. “There’s no one else here.” Tom hangs back, resisting but not going so far as refusing. He’s long been intrigued by Collins, his bonhomie and easy grin, those thick dark curls and the curious glint in his eye. His sturdy breadth, the tattoos on his biceps—a swallow for each, a trace faded now as though he’s had them since he was a lad. So he steps closer, and starts as Collins reaches for his wrist, rubbing his wide, callused thumb against his palm. He wants to go to him so badly he trembles with it, but he’s humiliated by how callow he is. He doesn’t wish to foist onto the man the task of teaching him when all he wants, he’s sure, is a quick and simple tumble. 

“I know you’re not averse,” Collins says. “I seen you making eyes at the captain, and seen how you look at me when you don’t think I see. Now, I’ll not presume nor press, but—” 

“Yes,” Tom says. “I would.” He feels himself grin and flush red—as though anyone could tell through the sunburn. Such frankness feels like a tremendous risk but something about Collins assures him it will be fine. “I just don’t know if it’s proper, here, where anyone might walk in. And anyway, what about a bit of courtship?”

“C’mere, and I’ll show you courtship.” 

Tom hesitates. “I just mean…” he turns pink as sunset. “I’ve never—”

“—Never? Well, that’s fine by me.” He tugs Tom off balance so he tumbles into the hammock onto him, his arm thrown over his chest and his thigh slotted between Collins. He takes a deep breath, draws in the smell of Collins’ neck. He wants this so much he can nearly taste it, the salt pang of his sweat, his flesh all sand-scraped and sun-flushed. He levers himself up by one knee to press his lips against his. Collins’ mouth is brilliantly warm and quick against his and as they kiss his broad hands come up to rest on the scant curve of his ass and the other on his hip, then wandering down to rest heavy on his thigh. He hopes Collins can’t feel his eagerness, how ridiculously hard he is already.

But while many of the men have shared their affections openly since arriving here at the islands, shedding inhibitions as they shed their coats and insignia, the boundaries between rank and class abraded bit by bit in the glare of the sun, Tom had refrained. He was—shy, was what they’d called it, the lads and lasses and who’d kissed him, who’d pressed for more and who were given for their trouble blushing apologies and trembling hands. But it wasn’t shyness in the way one is to shy to speak up, to act courageously. He’d no trouble with that. It was only—what? Was he waiting for something? Was it this, or something like it— _this_ precise moment, the smell of sun-baked bamboo and sweat, the starched and clean scent of sand? Collins huffs a sort of half-laughing, half-pleasure sound into his mouth and Tom knows now is it. 

“You don’t kiss like no _never_ ,” Collins scolds playfully against the corner of his lips.

“I’ve been kissed plenty,” Tom says, sitting up to run his fingers down the breadth of Collins’ chest. “But nowt much else, honestly. I’d not wish to burden you.”

“Burden me?” There’s that sunny grin again, and he shifts in the hammock so that Tom can feel his fattening length against his thigh. “It’s the same ‘tween men as it is ‘tween men and women, you know.” His voice is funny, still confident but almost thin, a tremor folded into it. “A man loves himself a virgin bride.” 

He lays his hands on Tom’s hips and tugs him right astride him. The effortlessness with which he takes his whole weight in his palms makes Tom nearly dizzy and he’s sure he’s never been harder. And there’s no hiding it. Collins greedily eyes his leaking prick jutting up in his trousers and he goes to cover himself.

“No,” the larger man says, pushing his hand away. “Let me see how wet you’ve got for me.” He cups his palm around him, rubs the thumb a trace roughly about the tip. As though summoned, another bit of fluid beads up. Tom feels flayed, ashamed, of his readiness. He’d wish for the sands beneath them to swallow him neatly whole if not for the pleased, heavy way Collins’ gaze rests on the thing in his hand—its unapologetic slenderness, the push of its little damp-darked head against the fabric of the trousers. Let him see, if it pleases him so.

“I bet you’d go off easy, aye?”

“Might,” Tom says, barely breathing. “Christ.” (Another stroke of that thumb, the fingers dancing up the hard lean of the underridge, and he nearly does.)

“Dirty up your small clothes for me?” Collins continues, his voice low and rich. 

“Don’t you want off? I could—I could take you in my mouth, my hand. I might—”

Collins shakes his head, his eyes sharp and pleased. Then his hand is down the front of Tom’s small clothes and he’s stroking him—a slow and firm grip. He likes how neatly he fits in his warm, rough palm, his whole prick almost swallowed by his fist. Collins was right: he’s so close, only the unfamiliarity of Collins’ grasp and rhythm slow it down, draw it out. Tom drives against him, whimpering. 

“I aim to court you, like you asked,” Collins says softly. “Consider this a calling-on. Now—will you be a good little thing and spend for me?”

God help him but he does. Abundantly, and with a strangled cry. “There’s a lad,” Collins murmurs, gentling him through it. “Let us have it.” 

After it’s done, Tom does feel absurdly, suddenly shy, as though he’d just confessed to Collins some act of repulsive cruelty, and he makes to leave. Collins’ arm around his waist, heavy but quick, anchors him. 

“Stay,” he murmurs. “Please?”

He wants to, more than anything. Rest, mostly. He closes his eyes and little shapes shift and blur in the reddish, exhausted dark. When they wake, the torches on the beach are lit for evening and the walk together out into the warm, thickening dark.


End file.
